


Anything

by sickofit (inthegarden)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Emetophilia, M/M, Vomiting, just puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthegarden/pseuds/sickofit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't handle illness well. Fortunately, his Dom is here to help.</p><p>*Warning* This is pretty much only graphic vomiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything

By the time Phil got to his apartment, it was already late, and he was already worried. When he texted Clint, he usually got a response within a few minutes. He’d texted Clint four times on his walk home, and received no replies.  
  
“Clint?” he said, locking the door behind him. Still no response. He frowned. Clint’s jacket was on its hook by the door, bow case in the corner. Starting with the living room, Phil moved through the apartment. Kitchen, clear. Bathroom, clear. Study, clear. Bedroom… ah.  
  
Clint was curled up in a tight ball on the bed, back against the headboard, head pressed to his knees. “Hello, sweetheart,” Phil said, gently. He got no response. Carefully, Phil settled on the edge of the bed, and ran a hand over the back of Clint’s head and down onto his shoulder. “Bad day?” he asked.  
  
Clint uncurled a little. Just enough to raise his head, and look up at Phil. His eyes were red around the edges, not quite enough to suggest he'd been crying, just upset, and he looked pale. Phil made a soft noise and ran his hand over Clint’s hair again. “What’s wrong?” he asked.  
  
Clint swallowed, and shook his head. “Don’t feel well,” he said.  
  
“Don’t feel well how?” Phil asked.  
  
Clint swallowed again, and shrugged. “Stomach hurts,” he said, his voice small in the way it sometimes was when he was under. He leaned into Phil’s hand, closing his eyes. Phil used his free hand to check Clint’s forehead, which was clammy but not overly warm.  
  
“Doesn’t seem like you have a fever, love. Did you eat anything unusual today?” he asked.  
  
Clint only swallowed and shrugged in response, which could mean anything.  
  
Phil sighed.  
  
“Do you need me to take care of this for you?” he asked, gently.  
  
After a few long moments, Clint nodded. “Please, Sir,” he said.  
  
“Of course, sweetheart. Do you feel like you need to throw up?”  
  
Clint considered, lowering his forehead back to his knees, and nodded.  
  
“Now?” Phil asked.  
  
A longer pause this time, and then Clint shook his head.  
  
“Okay.” Phil ran his hand down over Clint’s shoulders, settling his palm between his shoulder blades. “I’d like us to go to the bathroom, just in case. Be careful standing up, and tell me if you’re dizzy or need help,” Phil said, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to Clint.  
  
It took a moment, but Clint uncurled, clenching Phil’s hand in his own, and stood up. Phil wasn’t pleased by how shaky Clint was, but he wrapped an arm around him and headed to the bathroom. He had Clint sit on the edge of the bathtub, and got two towels off of the rack. One he folded and placed on the floor in front of the toilet, the other he draped over Clint’s shoulders.  
  
“Kneel for me, now,” he said, watching Clint swallow and noting that he was shivering a little. Clint grabbed at Phil's arm and used it to steady himself as he slowly dropped to his knees on the towel, none of his usual gracefulness in evidence. When he let go of Phil he pulled the towel around his shoulders tight.  
  
“I hate this, Sir,” he said, obviously miserable, staring at his knees.  
  
“I know you do. It’ll be over soon, though, and you’ll feel better,” Phil soothed, getting a paper cup and filling it with water. “Drink this for me,” he said, handing it to Clint.  
  
Clint was shaking a little, so he had to hold the cup with both hands, trying not to spill. Phil could tell he was struggling with getting it down, but he did, and passed the cup back to Phil. Phil set it on the counter and lifted the toilet seat and ring. “Good job, love,” he said. Clint swallowed hard in response.  
  
Phil sat down on the edge of the bathtub, knees just a few inches from Clint’s side, and ran a hand over Clint’s head and down his spine. “Shift forward a little, there you go,” he said. Clint swallowed again, and again. “Open your mouth for me,” he said.  
  
That one took a moment, Clint obviously fighting it, but he did open his mouth. Saliva dripped from his lower lip into the toilet water, and he swallowed again, looking up at Phil. “It’s okay. Won’t be long, and you’ll be feeling better,” Phil said, rubbing gentle circles over Clint’s back. “Relax for me, and try to stop swallowing,” he said.  
  
Clint took a shaky breath, but Phil could feel that he wasn’t relaxing. If anything, the muscles of his back were tensing. Phil increased the pressure of his hand, rubbing steady circles. “Focus on where I’m touching you, sweetheart,” he said, as Clint closed his mouth and swallowed. “Open your mouth again, relax your throat, and try not to swallow.”  
  
Clint leaned forward a little more, chest against the edge of the toilet, and closed his eyes. Phil could see him trying to obey, mouth opening, his back relaxing a bit. His breath was coming in short pants. “Take a deep breath for me, slowly,” Phil said.  
  
Clint tried. He got about half a breath in, and then gagged, the sound rough.  
  
“You’re okay, love,” Phil said, moving his hand up to cup the back of Clint’s neck. “Deep breath, again.”  
  
Clint inhaled, more of a gasp then a breath, and retched, shoulders and back clenching. A small stream of watery vomit hit the water. Clint spit, and didn’t breathe, obviously trying to avoid a repeat.  
  
“You want to get it all out, if you can. That’s the only way you’ll feel better. Deep breath for me, and relax your throat,” Phil said.  
  
Clint shivered, but obeyed. He managed a deep breath, retching at the end, tongue sticking out a little, his throat expanding as a wave of vomit came up. This time it wasn’t as watery, instead chunky and light brown. Clint tried to inhale after, but only got a bit of air in before he was throwing up again. Thicker still.  
  
Clint gasped after that wave, and retched, a few thick chunks hitting the dirty water. He dry heaved. Again, and then again. His eyes were watering, hands clenched on his knees, knuckles white.  
  
“Good,” Phil said. “You’re doing fine, love. Relax, if you can.”  
  
Clint stayed where he was, hovering his face over his own puke, for a long while, and then spit and sat back. “I don’t feel any better, Sir,” he said, sniffing. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.  
  
Phil flushed the toilet once, and then again, to get all the vomit down, and guided Clint’s head to lean against his knee, fingers carding through Clint’s hair. “Don’t feel better like you still need to vomit?” he asked, and Clint nodded. “Okay,” Phil said. “The last part was pretty thick. Let’s get some water in you in a bit and see if that helps,” he said, spending a few minuted just carding through Clint’s hair, letting him have a break.  
  
When Clint made a small noise of discomfort, Phil guided him to sit up, and stood. He filled the paper cup with water and handed it to Clint. “Drink,” he said. Clint did. “Good,” Phil said, taking the paper cup back and refilling it. They did this five more times. The cup was small, but it was still a good amount of liquid. Phil took his place on the edge of the tub again and settled his hand on Clint’s back, pressing him forward a little. “Same thing, now. Open your mouth, try to relax.”  
  
Clint did, but although his mouth was watering much more this time around, nothing was happening. He propped an elbow on the rim of the toilet, bracing his forehead on his hand. “Sir,” he said, obviously miserable.  
  
Phil made a sympathetic noise and scratched lightly through the hair at the base of Clint’s head. “I know,” he said. “It’s uncomfortable, but you just have to wait. Won’t be long, I promise.” Clint swallowed, and nodded, and stared down at the clean water, slowly dripping spit into it.  
  
Five minutes. Ten. Nothing. Phil sighed. Clint was obviously getting more and more uncomfortable, sweat breaking out around his hairline and under his eyes, and it wasn’t right to let this go on.  
  
“Open your mouth a little wider for me,” Phil said, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling up his shirt sleeve.  
  
Clint squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wider.  
  
“Good,” Phil said. “I’m going to help you out with my fingers. Try not to bite down,” he said, before pressing Clint’s mouth open a little further still with his first two fingers, and then sliding them in, over Clint’s tongue, to the back. Phil stroked upwards along the slick of the back of Clint’s throat, and Clint gagged. Phil’s other hand on the back of Clint’s neck held him in place, and though he tried to pull back from the intrusion, all instinct, he couldn’t.  
  
Phil stroked again and Clint retched, a spurt of puke coming up into his mouth, around Phil’s fingers. He couldn’t spit because Phil’s hand was still there, but Phil pulled his fingers back an inch so Clint could breathe. “Deep breath,” he said. As soon as Clint complied, Phil stroked again.  
  
This time, it wasn’t a little. A wave of puke came up, chunky but still liquid thanks to the water, covering Phil’s hand and dripping down his forearm into the toilet. A break for a breath. Phil stroked again, and Clint vomited, and then again before Phil could pull his fingers back a bit, a huge wave this time, dirtying Phil’s shirt around his elbow. Phil pulled his hand free, and Clint threw up again, a smaller wave. One more, and then Clint spit, hovered over the toiled a minute, and leaned back. He blinked.  
  
Phil moved his arm over to the bath, quickly turning on the tap and rinsing it, and then taking off his shirt and leaving it on the edge of the bath. He washed his arm off properly, and dried it, keeping an eye on Clint, who was just kneeling, breathing steadily. “Feeling any better now, sweetheart?” he asked, flushing the toilet. Clint blinked again, and nudged his shoulder into Phil’s knee.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he said. “Thank you, Sir. Feel a little stupid, but, yeah, better. Definitely better. Good, actually.” Phil smiled down at him, petting his hair.  
  
“Any time you need me, for whatever reason, I’ll be here."

  



End file.
